WHEN I LIVED in South Africa I once
owned a 30-foot boat that had bulwarks, a caprail, and a rubrail made of
beautiful hardwood. I couldn’t help myself, I varnished it. And varnished it.
And varnished it. That hot sub-tropical sun
burned through the varnish as if it were melting butter. Every six months I
rubbed it all down and put on another two coats of varnish. But, man, it looked
beautiful. People walking past in the marina used to come to a sudden halt and
stare at it in awe.
Eventually, though, the inevitable
happened. I got sick and tired of varnishing. I was also intending to sail that
boat to America and I had plenty of other preparations to attend to. I had just
about decided to paint all that nice wood a suitable buff color that looked
almost like varnish from 20 feet away when I noticed the brightwork on another
similar boat a few berths away. It was a lovely shade of honey teak, a
transparent matte finish that always looked as if it had just been applied.
I saw the owner on board one day and
asked him what kind of varnish he used.
“It’s not varnish, it’s Deks Olje,”
he said. “It’s Norwegian magic. You just wipe it on with a rag. Rub it well in,
all over, and you’re done. Just let it soak into the wood and dry. You don’t
have to bother with fancy brushes and there’s no trouble with wind or dust.”
I couldn’t get to the boat store
fast enough. I bought a large can of Deks Olje, which, lacking any knowledge of
Norwegian, I confidently translated as
Deck Oil. The instructions claimed it was the “easiest maintenance system
afloat,” a protective traditional wood oil, an alkyd-urethane resin. I was
thrilled to have discovered it.
I spent a week removing all the old
varnish from my woodwork and sanded it smooth. It was a lot of work. I then
applied three coats of Deks Olje with a clean rag. Nothing could have been
simpler. Sure enough, it looked magnificent. It wasn’t shiny like the old
varnish, but it had a deep, warm luster that enhanced the color and grain of the
wood.
We went sailing offshore on day trials
shortly afterward, and within two weeks the combined efforts of hot sun and
warm salt water had devastated my Deks Olje. It looked terrible. Half of it
appeared simply to have been washed away, leaving bare wood already going grey.
Much of the rest had turned white, as if it were encrusted with some kind of
chemical salt. Needless to say, I was
spitting mad.
I went back to the owner of the boat
down the way. “My Deks Olje is a disaster,” I said. “How does yours stay so
nice?”
“Oh, my Zulu house servant does it,”
he said. “He comes down once a week and just applies a fresh coat. It’s the
simplest thing. Takes him half an hour.”
”Once a week?” I said. “You mean, every week?”
“Yes,” he said. “Surely you have a
servant?”
We sailed for the USA shortly
afterward. I gritted my teeth and let the sun and waves remove the rest of the
Deks Olje, which they did with remarkable efficiency. The brightwork weathered
to a dignified silver grey and needed no attention at all.
Six months later I bought a can of
good old-fashioned tung-oil varnish when we got to Fort Lauderdale, Florida,
and treated the wood to the old familiar routine. Once again, it looked
magnificent and I sold the boat a few weeks later. I didn’t tell the new owner
how soon he would have to re-varnish. I figured he was just lucky I hadn’t
slapped on another few coats of Deks Olje.
Today’s
Thought
I cannot
pretend to be impartial about the colors. I rejoice with the brilliant ones,
and am genuinely sorry for the poor browns.
— Winston Churchill, Painting as a Pleasure
Tailpiece
“Your wife tells me she found out
you dated an eye doctor in Alaska.”
“No, no, that was no eye doctor. She
was an optical Aleutian.”
(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday,
Friday for a new Mainly about Boats column.)
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